


Got Your Hands in My Head (All Yours)

by sweeterthankarma



Series: Pride Month Prompts 2020 [4]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: First Love, M/M, Mild Smut, Porn with Feelings, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthankarma/pseuds/sweeterthankarma
Summary: Oliver never holds back when offering what Elio needs. It’s admirable; he’s dedicated. Elio has to stop his train of thought to reclaim his breath, to inhale, and only when he catches up with himself does he let himself think a rather damning thought: he isn’t sure he ever experienced a second of his life wholly until he met Oliver. Until he put his hands on him.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Series: Pride Month Prompts 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769956
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	Got Your Hands in My Head (All Yours)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Pride Month and welcome to my first ever month-long fic challenge! For thirty days, I'll be writing and posting LGBTQ+ fics inspired by the prompts listed [here](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/517562182177703635/). These fics will be anywhere from 100-1,500 words, will be for different fandoms, ships and characters, and will all stand alone. Here goes nothing!
> 
> Day 4 Prompt: Sensory. 
> 
> Title comes from the song "Yours" by SG Lewis.

Elio gets lost in Oliver so effortlessly.

It’s not a surprise to either of them — especially since  this is what, their sixth time making love? Seventh? —  but Elio is still a little taken aback, a little unnerved by the way that Oliver’s touch makes him feel like he’s on fire. It’s a harsh way to phrase it but remarkably accurate, too, because Elio is alive,  _ so _ alive whenever he’s like this, pressed so close to Oliver that he forgets where his body ends and his lover’s begins. 

It’s cliche and almost embarrassing and Elio muses briefly about how he’s fallen victim to that thing called love that people talk about so much, but he gets it now, he has it for himself,  _ finally— _ and hell, maybe he should write Oliver a poem. He could try his hand at it. Lord knows he has enough thoughts about him, enough feelings that always float around in his mind, ready and willing to be proclaimed and performed.

Especially at moments like this when Oliver puts his mouth on his hip bone and sucks the skin, gingerly though anything but tentative, as though he seems to know Elio’s body better than he knows it himself. 

Oliver never holds back when offering what Elio needs. It’s admirable; he’s dedicated. Elio has to stop his train of thought to reclaim his breath, to inhale, and only when he catches up with himself does he let himself think a rather damning thought: he isn’t sure he ever experienced a second of his life wholly until he met Oliver. Until he put his hands on him. 

He hopes Oliver knows that. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he feels the same way about him. (He does.)

Elio would confess it aloud but now isn’t the time, not when Oliver’s mouth is busy at work beneath him, teasing and writhing. And moments later, when Oliver’s fingers replace his tongue and his mouth comes back up to Elio’s, Elio finds that there’s no time for words anyway.

“Keep your eyes open,” Oliver suggests, hums against the hollow of Elio’s throat. His teeth nick the heated skin there, just gently enough to incite a shiver, and Elio’s hands reach, grabby and impatient, eager for any bit of his lover that he can find and hold onto. Never let go.

“What?” he responds, or at least tries to. He’s not following.

Oliver’s fingertips brush the skin underneath the waistband of his underwear, slip underneath. His touch is firm, sure.

“Eyes open,” Oliver says, more of a command this time though his voice drips of affection like honey. He’s assertive and a little dominant in a way that Elio adores but he’s also needing and passionate, letting Elio take from him just as much as he gives. The juxtaposition sends Elio’s heart to the moon and back, makes him feel like he’s floating. Levitating. Dead and gone to heaven, every possible analogy ever made might as well apply to him. 

Oliver kisses him swiftly, not needing confirmation on whether Elio will do what he says. He always does. He could kiss him anywhere, knows he’d always let him. The question of whether he should is something else entirely.

Oliver doesn’t break from the kiss for even a second, his tongue tucking up towards Elio’s upper lip and seeking into his mouth. He’s so skilled at the mere act of kissing that it makes Elio shudder, makes him almost forget he’s supposed to be obedient.  _ Almost.  _

He fights to keep his eyelids from fluttering shut, overwhelmed with the bliss of his lover’s mouth alone, but he thinks he gets it now, the point of this whole thing. It should be weird but it isn’t because Oliver looks at him, hot as he kisses, and Elio groans, unable to stop himself as his gaze burns back at him. 

It doesn’t last long enough for either of them to second guess it, anyway. Oliver bends, offers, gives like it’s nothing. He trails his lips down Elio’s chest, sloppy and slick, and Elio quivers, sighs. Oliver doesn’t break eye contact, not even for half a second. Elio  _ definitely  _ gets it now. 

It’s easy to be like this with Oliver. Elio doesn’t even have to think about it, though he likes to; he’s always been a big thinker, even when he doesn’t need to be. This thing between them isn’t complicated, though, not really— and maybe it should be, but he feels it: it flows, makes way for feelings and affection and desire, and Elio thinks it’s the only thing he may ever need, forget the rest of the world. He doesn’t care. 

Nothing matters but this. Them. Nothing else even crosses his mind.

“Oliver,” Elio gets out in between kisses, and he can see it in his eyes: he thinks the same. What an experience, to love and be loved in return.

Oliver slips into him, languid and easy, and Elio suddenly forgets how to think, how to breathe. There’s a brief moment where he thinks this is it, this is how he’s going to die, experiencing the sublime because Oliver’s eyes are so dark in the moonlight but they’re practically glittering and his gaze doesn’t falter, so sexy and intimate and god, they could fuck until the end of time and it still might not be enough. Oliver pushes into him over and over, rhythmic and snug, as he scrapes his hands along his back, caresses his abdomen, holds Elio in every way he’s ever wanted to be held.

Emotions crest over Elio for a long time. Physically and emotionally, they never really seem to stop. Elio lays on his side, fingers tracing words and shapes on Oliver’s damp, hot skin. He lets out a long, heavy breath, looks up to meet Oliver’s eyes, and lunges up for a sporadic kiss, forever needing more.

“Sensory overload?” Oliver asks when Elio grows tired and drops his head to his shoulder. Elio makes an unintelligible sound. Without even looking up, he knows that Oliver’s lips are curled upwards into a wet, smug smile. Laughter teases at the corners of his words, drawing out the vowels. Elio thinks about tipping his head up to kiss Oliver again, as if he hasn’t already done it a thousand and one times that evening alone. Seconds later he does, simply because he can. Because he wants to. He always wants.

“You could say that.”

There are far worse things to be than greedy, anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi and celebrate pride month with me on Tumblr [here.](https://sweeterthankarma.tumblr.com/)


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